


Sing Where We Kiss and Toy

by mistyzeo



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Play, Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Bath Houses, Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Bisexual Character, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Canonical Character Death, Caught, Come Shot, Coming Untouched, Cybersex, Desk Sex, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Disguise, Dream Sex, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/F, Facials, Fantasizing, Femslash, First Time, Frottage, Good Old Index, Infidelity, Late at Night, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Mildly Dubious Consent, Military Kink, Morning After, Morning Wood, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Other, Outdoor Sex, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Participant Observation, Pining, Porn Magazines, Public Sex, Quickies, Retirement, Sexual Experimentation, Sharing Clothes, Skype, Sleeping Together, Smut, Somnophilia, Spanking, Taxis, Team Sussex, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 15,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry Month of May masturbation challenge! 31 days, 31 ficlets? This is a terrible idea. <a href="http://mistyzeo.tumblr.com/ask">Prompts welcome.</a> Title from the poem by Thomas Decker.</p><p>I recommend reading this chapter-by-chapter, as each part (essentially) stands alone. The <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1553825/navigate">chapter index</a> may be particularly helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. object insertion (ACD, Holmes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts), [pursuitofnerdiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pursuitofnerdiness/gifts), [tweedisgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/gifts), [trickybonmot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/gifts), [Vernets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vernets/gifts), [jaradel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/gifts), [cloakstone69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloakstone69/gifts), [baronwaste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronwaste/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Object insertion for Jay.

I had never seen one made in stone before, and it was like a void had opened up inside me. I stopped in my tracks, transfixed; the ancient old woman sitting behind her stall began to smile at me. The bazaar was white noise in my ears, drowned out by my astonishment. It was just lying there, among the carved stone luck trinkets, the strings of beads, the gleaming silver jewelry. I swallowed my trepidation and picked it up. I was in disguise; I had nothing to lose. The old woman’s grin was mostly toothless, but she said nothing as I shoved money in her direction and tucked my purchase away in my pocket.

Watson was out when I got home, thank God. My skin was tingling with anticipation, and I locked my bedroom door behind me. I stripped out of my voluminous beggar's robes and took the time to wash the make-up from my face before I sat down naked upon my bed. The stone phallus was cool and smooth in my hands, and it had a gentle curve from end to end. The casual observer might not even identify it, so innocuous did it appear.

My prick was already half hard, so I lay back took myself gently in hand. I let the phallus rest on my belly, hoping it would warm up enough by the time I wanted it inside me. The idea of it sliding into my body, stretching my flesh and filling me, had me rocking up into my grip. I opened the jar of Vaseline from the drawer one-handed and coated my fingers, sliding them between my legs and behind my bollocks. I worked myself open quickly, wincing at the stretch but hungry to be filled.

The stone when it pressed inside me was unyielding, harder than a cock, bigger around than my two fingers. Its curve slid it directly against my prostate, and I bit back a cry. I hadn't been stimulated like that in ages, and it almost overwhelmed me. I held my breath, pushing it deeper, and my prick leaked freely on my stomach.

I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking my hips, the end of the phallus rubbing and rubbing me inside. I barely needed to stroke myself; just held on and fucked myself in shallow little thrusts. I heard myself groan and clenched my teeth, my blood pounding in my ears. I so rarely succumbed to such weakness that my body was on a hair trigger, and already I felt the tell-tale signs of my impending crisis. I wanted to spread my legs wide and rut until I came. I tossed my head on the pillow and dug my heels into the bed.

The orgasm started deep inside me and spread outwards, spiraling, arching my spine and curling my toes. I shook and moaned and spurted, making a mess of myself, and the phallus inside me was entirely unmoved.


	2. military kink (BBC, Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Sherlock's military kink](http://mid0nz.tumblr.com/post/51099829615/sherlocks-military-kink-is-canon-in-a-study-in), for Liz.

The magazine has to be almost thirty years old, judging by the state of its cover, and when John picks it up he isn't surprised in the slightest to see _June 1983_ in the corner. He turns it over in his hands, astonished and bemused. It's in decent nick, but that's probably because it's been stowed away for so long, untouched by sunlight or humid air. The trunk John is going through in the pursuit of old case files is full of old text books from Sherlock's school days and newspaper cuttings dated from the late 80's. Not exactly what he was after, but educational nonetheless.

"Street Fighting Technique," one of the headlines reads. Another, "82nd Airborne." John begins to page through it, curiosity winning out over any kind of concerns he might have for Sherlock's privacy. It's just an old magazine, what could possibly—

John stops. He can't seriously be that much of an idiot. Sherlock _has_ been training him. This isn't some random issue Sherlock shoved in among his other papers and forgot about. This has been specifically, specially preserved. The pages are well-thumbed, some of the corners turned down, some spreads a little weaker in the binding than others. This is a favorite.

 _You dirty fucker,_ John thinks with a grin, opening the "Street Fighting Technique" article to two buff, shirtless blokes wrestling each other in a dirty alley. _This was your special issue, wasn't it? Little light bedtime reading?_

Some of the pages are stiffer than others. John turns these with the tips of his fingers, fighting back giggles. Sherlock would absolutely kill him if he knew John was up here, rooting around in his adolescent wank fodder. How can he take advantage of this absolute wealth of teasing material without giving himself away?

Something falls out of the last pages, and John snatches it before it gets lost between the trunks. It's a photograph of a dozen men in dress uniforms, standing—

Jesus, it can't be.

It's a photograph of John's regiment—what remains of it—taken seven months ago at a formal dinner. John is _in this picture._ He's standing in the front, because no matter how tall he carries himself he is still five-foot-six. He's wearing his dress uniform, and just looking at the picture he can feel the stiff corners, the high collar, the weight of his stripes and ornamentation, the pleats in his trousers. He can feel himself straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, spreading his stance.

Sherlock has this tucked away in a favorite magazine featuring _entirely_ men involved in some kind of military combat, stowed in a trunk John is not supposed to rifle through.

John is… strangely comfortable with this development.

"Sherlock," he calls, turning back towards the stairs, the photograph between two fingers. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"


	3. Good Old Index (ACD, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Good Old Index" for Tweed.

My dear fellow, whatever do you mean, you don't believe me? I admit that I have… misled you on other occasions, but never about something so… intimate. I will prove it to you. No, Watson, not with a demonstration, although perhaps later tonight you might be able to convince me. No, there is a folio here in my index which I have never asked you to take down, and with good reason. Ah! Here it is. A slim volume; you might never have noticed it. Here.

It's obscure, I know. I wrote it that way on purpose. Just dates and times, pressure, duration, deviation from a control, and outcome. I wish I'd included a column of visual or mental stimulation, but that might have given me away entirely. It begins, as you can see, in 1870, which I understand is perhaps a little late for most young men. Perhaps it was the presence of other boys at school. I think I wanted to know what the fuss was about. I started writing it down right away, wishing to catalogue the experience. Don't roll your eyes at me.

Oh, the starred entries are for particularly significant instances. I can't remember what they all were, but they were important at the time. I think this one, here, in '75 was… in reaction to a friend. That might have been the first time my mental images were not abstract.

This one? Ooh, yes, well, look at the duration. No, it was not painful. In fact it was quite… enlightening. I would be amenable to repeating that one at some point. With your careful attentions, of course. It wouldn't be exactly the same, but it might be interesting to see what influence the presence of a partner has on staying power.

Yes, your hypothesis is sound.

What? Why do the experiments cease? Well, my dear boy, surely you must know the answer to that. Just look at the dates. No? Watson, really. Look here, starting in January, nearly once a day until— ah, now you see it. Goodness, how I love that colour upon your cheeks. One would think a fellow as worldly as you would not blush so fetchingly, but perhaps there is some benevolence in the universe.

Well, mm, darling, wait! Don't throw it on the ground! Good God, man. Let me put it away, if you're quite finished looking at it.

There. Now, what were you going to ask me?

Oh, indeed. Well, no, I don't think we have to wait until tonight. If you'd just… step this way, Doctor, I'm sure I could… yes, bring a pencil, there's a good fellow.


	4. observing (ACD, Watson, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Observing. Pretty much immediately follows the previous ficlet.

Sherlock Holmes oscillates between two states of existence: wishing to be observed, and wishing to disappear entirely. He is a master of disguise, his distinguishing characteristics melting away to be replaced by the stooping back, the shuffling gait, the workhouse cough, and so many other affectations. He ceases to exist when he goes undercover, and all that remains is the character that he portrays. But he is also as vain as a peacock, and he loves nothing better than to draw the curtains back at the end of a case and revel in the astonishment on our faces as we marvel at his genius. Even during the course of an investigation he loves to be questioned, disbelieved, followed, and scrutinised, all the better to prove himself right in the end.

He will preen at the grudging amazement of the Scotland Yarders, but it is my attention in particular that he adores, and he never hesitates to show off for me. He plays his violin when I am restless, his fingers dancing up and down the neck of the instrument in impressive demonstrations of his skill, just to distract me from my aching war wounds or my frustration with my manuscripts. He regales me with stories of his old cases, retroactively seeking my approval for investigations long gone. I should have expected, then, to be able to sit at the end of his bed and watch him engage in self-abuse, and have him shivering without needing to touch him.

Holmes is nearly naked: his shirt is unbuttoned and askew, his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his trousers are open and shoved down around his thighs. His bare toes curl and uncurl in the sheets, and his cock is thrusting quickly and shallowly through the circle of his grip. His jet-black hair is in disarray, and his face is flushed pink with exertion and arousal.

I have my pocket watch in one hand, counting out the minutes, and in the other my pencil is poised over my littlest notebook. I am meant to be keeping records, but I cannot take my eyes off him. He is the picture of hedonistic abandon, his cool facade cracked open to show his passionate interior, hungry for approval and affection. I tuck the pencil behind my ear and reach for him, sliding my hand up his shin and down his thigh. He twists on the bed and moans, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You're gorgeous," I tell him in a low voice. "Just look at you. I could watch you all day."

I lean in, resting my weight against his leg. I keep my gaze fixed upon his working hand, and he starts to add a little twist to the end of his strokes that I recognise. He watches me watch him, his breathing shallow and his hand speeding up. His prick is slick and so hard.

"Let me see you come," I murmur, looking up into his eyes, and he does.


	5. fantasy (ACD, Mary Watson, H&W)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "fantasy" and also I am crap at not writing H/W.

Sometimes, when I am alone and left to my own devices, I slip a hand between my thighs and I imagine my husband and Mr Holmes together. Mr Holmes is an unconventionally handsome man: tall and severe, with that beak of a nose and his piercing eyes. His gaze is unsettling at first, as he reads all of your secrets off your clothing and your hands, but when he looks at John I can see the warmth in him, the affection that he tries to hide. I suspect John does not know that his own adoration is returned.

I imagine revealing it to them both, sitting them down in their armchairs at Baker Street and watching the astonishment on their faces. I can imagine their furtive glances at one another, their disbelief, and then their hesitant approach. John would be the first to move: he would go to Mr Holmes and offer him a hand, and he would pull Mr Holmes to his feet. Mr Holmes would duck his head, uncertain, and John would take his face in both hands and kiss him.

John is a wonderful kisser. He is gentle and sweet, patient and polite, until the moment you part your lips for a breath he is delving between them. His kisses are the root of his seduction, and I can be turned to jelly with just a few of them. Mr Holmes would suffer the same fate, weak-kneed and clinging to John in a few moments.

They would look to me for my permission and I would grant it with a smile. John would undress Mr Holmes: divesting him of his collar and cravat, his waistcoat, his cuffs and shirt. I imagine Mr Holmes is sturdier than he looks, and John would discover this with delight. He would run his hands up and down Mr Holmes's body, and Mr Holmes would shiver under his touch. I imagine John would already be aroused; he has waited so long for this, and he desires it so deeply. He would press his hips against Mr Holmes's and find him in an equal state of excitement, and together they would sink to the floor, twined together on the bearskin rug.

My fingers are wet with my own desire and I easily find the place that makes me moan. I rub firmly, in quick little circles, imagining John's face as he peels open Mr Holmes's trousers and reveals his cockstand. Mr Holmes blushes, so innocent, and at the mercy of my well-traveled husband. I am already near my paroxysm, so I skip forward in my fantasy, and picture Mr Holmes struggling for control under John's ministrations. John uses his mouth, performing an act I am too embarrassed to suggest he and I try, though in these moments I always resolve to overcome my hesitation. I reach my peak with a cry, picturing John's face, picturing Mr Holmes's, and wishing to God I could do something about it.


	6. caught (ACD, Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> getting caught (or the fantasy thereof) for [trickybonmot](http://trickybonmot.tumblr.com/). basil drew [THE CUTEST ACCOMPANIMENT](http://grossbees.tumblr.com/post/85064320323/an-mmom-exchange-of-sorts-with-someone-whos-good) to this little ditty.

The sitting room is a dangerous place for this sort of activity, but I think it is the danger that compels me to risk it. Holmes is gone out on some errand and has left no indication of when he might return, so I have no idea how long I have. It might be ten more minutes, and it might be four or five hours; one never knows. Mrs Hudson thinks I am working on my latest manuscript and that I mustn't be disturbed.

I wonder what Holmes would say if he came home to find me with my trousers open and my prick out. I sit splay-legged on the settee, contemplating it, my hand resting on the ridge of my cock behind my flies. The notion of being caught should fill me with horror and embarrassment, but instead I am flooded with desire. It is wrong of me to do this here, positively wicked, downright disrespectful. I'm going to do it anyway.

My cock jumps as I unfasten my trousers, and it strains obscenely against the placket of my drawers. I spent a few long moments touching lightly, just stroking with my fingertips, enjoying the muted sensation and the temptation to rub harder. The head beneath my thumb grows wet through the fabric, and the musky smell of my arousal fills my nose. I tip my head back against the settee cushions and untie my drawers.

When I grip my prick, it swells to fill my hand, the tender head just peeking out of its foreskin. I lick my thumb and rub slowly across the slit, causing another upwelling of fluid. The slide through my hand grows easier; I push my hips upwards and grip tighter.

The real Holmes, if he were to find me like this, would undoubtedly be appalled, but the Holmes in my imagination is only intrigued. His natural curiosity would get the better of him, and he would leave off whatever he had been pursuing on his errand to kneel between my feet. The phantom pressure of his hands upon my thighs makes me tense and jerk, and I cup my bollocks in the palm of my other hand, squeezing them roughly. 

Kneeling there, he would naturally offer to take me in his mouth, and the sweet, wet heat of his lips would envelop me. I spit in my cupped hand and rub it across my pulsing glans, my breath coming short. My hips twitch, rising of their own volition. I can feel the tingle of orgasm at the base of my spine, low in my pelvis; the promise of relief. With eyes closed I can better picture Holmes's face flushed pink with effort, his hair in disarray where I had run my fingers through, his lips swollen and the saliva gleaming at the corners of his mouth. I have made him this way. Only I see him like this.

The click of the latch in the sitting room door is like a gunshot.


	7. drunk (ACD, Watson, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drunk idiots, for B.

"It certainly was a _frustrating_ case," Watson said, over the third glass of brandy.

"Not at all," I replied, leaning over him to refill my own glass. "The young ladies were all very enlightening. My dear fellow, you were _there._ "

Watson smirked at his drink. "They'll be enlightening tonight," he mumbled.

"Are you being vulgar?" I asked. "Gracious, Watson, some of those dancers might have been your daughters."

"I know," he sighed, shaking his head. "I'm a dirty old man, and I can only hope you'll forgive me."

I took a sip, considering, and then said, "You'll feel too guilty, later, my boy. Do it now."

His look of shock made me laugh aloud. 

"What, _now?_ Holmes, you're mad!"

"I'm drunk," I corrected. "I want to watch you."

"You _are_ mad," he said, but he was already unfastening his trousers. I helped, tugging his shirt tails free, and turned so that I could almost face him, pulling my knee up onto the sofa and propping my head on my hand. I abandoned my drink on the table behind me, preferring to give Watson my full attention.

His prick stiffened proudly in his hand, and he glanced at me sheepishly from beneath his eyelashes before he began to stroke himself.

"What are you thinking about now?" I asked.

"You," he admitted. "Your mouth."

"What is my mouth doing?"

"Well, it's talking right now," Watson said, rubbing his thumb across his exposed head.

"Your fantasies leave something to be desired, I think," I chided. "Slow down."

Watson's breath caught, and he obeyed, biting his lip. I watched him work, slow and steady, prick gleaming with his excitement.

"Faster," I murmured. "Squeeze it tight."

"Mmh," Watson said, doing just that. His hips jerked, and he rucked up the tails of his shirt in readiness.

I tucked my hand into the back of his collar, resting my thumb behind his ear, and leaned in. I put my nose boldly against his pulse and inhaled deeply. He smelt of his tobacco and the warm spice of his body and the sharper salt of his desire. I felt him twitch and heard him curse, and my eyes slid shut as he trembled.

I listened to him catch his breath, and pulled away reluctantly. He was flushed, relaxed, and his smile was soft. When he opened his eyes to meet mine, the blush intensified. He was growing embarrassed, I realised. I whipped my handkerchief out of my pocket and handed it to him. He muttered his thanks, wiping up the mess on his skin. I put a finger under his chin and tipped it up, forcing him to meet my eyes, and then I leaned in and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

I pulled away before he could reciprocate or object, and smiled. "To bed now, I think," said I.

"Holmes," he said, tucking himself away.

"Yes?"

He hesitated, and then he grinned. "You were right, I don't feel guilty at all."


	8. mouse-coloured dressing gown (ACD, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mouse-coloured dressing gown, for Tweed.

Watson is gone when I awake, and for a moment the desertion lances through my heart. _What a mistake we have made,_ I think, scrambling out of bed. The covers are all disordered, and upon the floor still rests Watson’s discarded shirt (collar and cuffs are beneath the bed, I remember). Perhaps he has fled, leaving the evidence of our indiscretion behind. Perhaps I should do the same.

_No, Holmes, stop and think. Observe. Deduce._

Beyond the door-- unlocked-- I hear the sound silverware against china: breakfast. Watson has not abandoned me. Yonder he sits, waiting. I steady my hands and open the door.

His back is to me. My attention is first caught by the hair on the nape of his neck, which I have now felt under my lips. The memory of sensation robs me of my breath, even as his spine stiffens slightly at the sound of my emergence from the bedroom. The next thing I notice stops me dead, halfway between doorway and table.

Watson is wearing my dressing gown. God help us all, he is wearing my favorite dressing gown: the one he would call mouse-coloured, the one that sits light upon my shoulders and falls loose around my wrists, the one that cannot possibly fit him as beautifully as it does. If this is all an illusion, if in a moment he tells me we cannot possibly do again what we did last night, I will keep this image tucked away in my brain attic to be revived whenever I need a moment’s comfort or a catalyst for five furtive minutes of self-abuse.

He turns at my hesitation, a hopeful smile upon his honest face. His hair is in disarray, both from my attentions and my pillows.

“Good morning, Holmes,” says my Doctor.

“Good morning to you,” I reply, and I sink into the chair across from him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “I didn’t mean to leave you like that, but I heard Mrs H on the stair and I panicked. I don’t think she suspects anything.”

For an instant I am stunned, relief rushing through me, and then I cannot help myself: I begin to laugh. In moments I am hysterical, ribs heaving, abdomen aching, tears running down my face. Watson stares, chuckles weakly, stares some more.

“My dear fellow,” I manage finally, wiping my eyes with the napkin on the table and clearing my throat, “she may not have my powers of observation, but… _look_ at yourself.”

He glances down, does an obvious double-take, and puts his face in his hands. He groans in consternation, and it sets me laughing again.

“What is so damned funny?” he demands. “I have placed us in serious danger!”

“Please don’t fret, my dear,” I say, reaching across the table to cover his hand with mine. “Mrs Hudson is the most trustworthy woman I know. We are quite safe under her roof.”


	9. frottage on a sleeping partner (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one's all me. slightly dub-con? partner is technically unconscious? also i'm sensing a theme, a little bit: watson is totally inappropriate.

Sherlock Holmes is beautiful when he sleeps. He does it with such irregularity that I am loathe to disturb him, even when it has been ten hours, even when the insistent jut of my morning erection prompts me to wake him. I tip my hips away from his backside, ashamed, and bend to kiss his sandpaper jaw.

Holmes sighs and shifts, long fingers clenching and unclenching in the bedclothes, but he does not wake. If anything he burrows more deeply into sleep, his breathing soft and regular, his eyes flickering beneath his lids. I long to know what Sherlock Holmes dreams about. I touch my nose to his cheek, breathing in his subtle, familiar scent, and my hand slips of its own volition, atop the blankets, down over his hip. His nightshirt is rucked up about his upper thighs; I tuck a knee in behind his, and again he stirs, leaning back into the curve of my body.

I am trapped. How dreadful. My prick jumps at the contact, pressed between my belly and the small of Holmes's back. It would only take a few minutes, I think. I hardly need to disturb him. A gentle rocking of the hips rubs my cock against him, two layers of fabric sliding softly between us. I hold his hip still and nuzzle at his vertebrae, enjoying the simple hedonism of it all. Holmes is rarely stationary long enough for me to really appreciate his back of his right shoulder where it meets his neck, the rise and fall of his ribs, the curl of his toes against mine. I take my little pleasures where I may.

The barrier of his nightshirt is dispensed with easily, pushed up to his waist. His skin is smooth and warm, his muscular abdomen softened by the angle at which he rests. I touch his navel: evidence that he did not spring fully formed from the mind of a Titan's son. With my own garments out of the way, my prick glides smoothly against his skin. I swallow hard, keeping myself in check, ignoring every impulse to rut and claim, and maintain a subdued rhythm. I'm hardly moving at all.

Another mumble, and this time Holmes rolls away from me, half onto his belly, drawing one leg up. The juncture of his thighs is slick from last night, and an idea so ridiculous and wrong seizes me by the breastbone. Two fingers quest and breach, and I have to steady my breathing. My cock, nestled against the swell of Holmes's buttocks, would require only the slightest readjustment in position to be inside him again.

I make the adjustment, my heart in my throat, and my cock head kisses the rim of his passage, barely pressing inside. The mere whisper of sensation, the promise of the sheath I will fill, has me gasping, open-mouthed.

"Good God, Watson," Holmes murmurs, reaching back to take a firm hold of my arse, "don't stop now."


	10. come into the garden (ACD, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come into the garden [Maud]" from the poem by Tennyson, for Tweed. Has nothing to do with gardens or that poem.

Three days after Watson left for a week in London, I found myself craving him at the most inopportune times. I turned to make a remark to him in the sitting room, and found his usual armchair empty. I nearly asked him what he wanted for lunch, only to remember the larder was stocked for one. I had forgotten, again, what it was like to live alone.

I told myself sternly to make the most of my uninterrupted time, and set off in the afternoon for my hives. Afterwards, I decided, I would take a long walk along the shore. Watson, the dear man, is not as mobile as he used to be, and his leg pains him after too much exertion. He is, however, as stubborn as he always was, and never complains a whit about the damn thing. I am afraid of injuring him, and so our walks are by necessity somewhat short.

The sun was high and hot, and I divested myself of my jacket soon after I reached the hives. The netted hat protected my face from bees as well as a burn, and despite the risk of being stung under the wrists of my gloves, I rolled up my sleeves. The bees were busy, humming with the late spring heat and the abundance of flowers, but they greeted me gently and allowed my careful inspection of their comb and their queen.

When that was done, I spread my jacket on the grass and sat down upon it, overlooking the sea. The breeze was cool on my face and arms, and I was absolutely surrounded by wildflowers. I lay back in the grass, gazing up at the cloudless sky, and thought of Watson.

 _We're all alone,_ I heard him say. _Not a soul for miles._

I was aroused at the thought. We could sodomise one another for hours in the open air, and no one would know or care. It was a glorious idea: I couldn't believe I hadn't had it before. Watson probably had. Flicking open the buttons on my trousers and slipping a hand inside, I wondered if he'd thought about it much, if he imagined spreading a blanket out in the grass and taking me here, on the edge of the cliff, with the sun on our backs. I pictured the freckles on his tanned shoulders, the wind ruffling his hair, the sweat along the length of his spine. We would never forget we were out of doors, and we would remind one another of our risk.

I caught the better part of my emission in the cupped palm of my hand, and wiped it carelessly in the grass. Still shivering, I buttoned myself up again and lay quiescent, eyes closed, listening to the crash of the sea. In five minutes, I was asleep. 

When Watson returned on Sunday, I blamed the astonishing sunburn on the walk I never took, and he only teased me for a very little while.


	11. giving instruction (ACD, Watson, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "giving instruction" for tricky and B. who both suggested it. [mirror-verse companion to chapter 3.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1553825/chapters/3308240)

Holmes, are you saying you've never— that is to say, not once? Not even in school? I hadn't taken you for one of those people who believes an emission is a threat to virility or… or morality or something like that. I would have thought your Bohemian nature would have compelled you to give into those sorts of urges whenever they were particularly insistent. Though, now that I think about it, I have to practically cram a piece of toast in your mouth when you're on the case, so it shouldn't surprise me that you'd ignore something like that until it went away.

Goodness, no, I'm not going to _show_ you. It's really something you have to work out for yourself, old boy. Holmes, what are you— _Holmes._ You're going to do yourself a mischief if you carry on like that. Be gentle. Just, touch it with your fingertips. Here, lean back against the arm of the— yes, all right, put your feet wherever you like, you ridiculous man. You're not ticklish are you?

There, see, isn't that better? You're blushing. Well, you started this. Gentle, I said, until you're fully hard. That's it: up and down. Now, take hold of yourself, still gently, mind, and just squeeze a bit. Yes, that's— that's very nice. Slowly. 

Is it wet? That's good, that will help slick your hand. Rub it around a bit, get it on your thumb. Of— of course you'd want to taste it. Well? As expected? No, I don't want— yes, all right, give it here.

Mm, a little bitter. Probably because all you've consumed today is coffee. You'll see what I mean. Unbutton your shirt, you'll be more comfortable, I think. Of course, you can rub one out without getting undressed, but it certainly isn't as nice. Well, it depends on the situation, I suppose.

Now, where were we? Ah, you're all lovely and rosy, from your cheeks right down to your cock. Put your hand on yourself again— on your _cock_ , then— and give it a stroke. Again. Yes, another. Go on, I can tell you want to just carry on doing that. Let your hips move, push up into your hand. Good. Easy, not too fast. You have to let it build.

You look absolutely debauched. I can't believe you've never done this before. You're a natural.

Wh—why have you stopped? Too much? No, that's supposed to happen. That sensation is what this is all about. Yes, the anticipation is very nice, I agree, but I never could sustain that for very long. You'll reach a point where it's simply inevitable, and you can't stop for anything. It won't take you long, now. You're dripping like a faucet, my dear. You're going to make a mess of yourself.

Are you close? Feel how your prick gets very hard and stiff just before— ahh, there you go. God, that's gorgeous. 

This was a trap, wasn't it? 

I thought so.


	12. bound/no hands (ACD, felony 'verse, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bound (for anon), no hands

"I'd stake a tenner on it," Watson said, crossing his arms.

"You'll lose your money," I replied, smirking at him from my armchair. "I'll prove it to you now, if you like."

"Yes," he said, "I think now is a splendid time."

We went into my bedroom, and Watson went straight for the bottom drawer of my dresser, where a very expensive hysteria machine shares space with two twenty-foot lengths of silken rope. I undressed down to my drawers, but when Watson tried to take those off me as well I stopped him.

"I said no hands, not no stimulation."

He blushed deeply in understanding, and stepped back. His cock was hard already. So was mine, which was good.

I lay on the bed and let him bind me hand and foot to the corners. Then he sat beside me to observe.

I closed my eyes. The pressure of my drawers on my erection was not much, but it was enough to get me started. I tugged on the ropes and rocked my hips, deepening my breathing. I imagined Watson's hands on my arms first, stroking and pressing, holding me down to the mattress. My cock twitched. I pulled again on the ropes, trying to spread my legs further, and my breath caught in my throat. Flexing the muscles in my pelvis, I made my prick jump and push against my drawers, the barest sensation amplified by my focus and my bindings.

I thought about Watson's mouth, how hot and sweet it was, and how I would like to fuck it. He loves to suck me, loves the way I squirm and moan, and I imagined pushing deep, my bollocks slapping against his chin. My hips twitched, my cock jerking upwards against taut fabric. I flexed again and again, rubbing myself there, making a wet patch where my excitement seeped through. I imagined what it would look like when I came as the ejaculation spurted through the fabric.

Watson hadn't moved, but his breathing was as ragged as mine. I groaned, humping the air, hanging onto the ropes that bound my wrists. He was right; it was helping. My arousal was compounding, being trapped for his entertainment adding to the urgency and the pleasure. I thought about being fucked like this, spread apart for his cock. I imagined the first stretch as he breached me, the way my body opened eagerly, hungry for him. I rolled my hips, tightening my abdomen, and dug my heels into the bed. 

I could feel it threatening as if from a long way off. The spark was there, but I needed more stimulation. I began to thrust harder, faster, flexing and rocking and imagining a hand that wasn't there. I was desperate to come, positively aching for it.

I peaked with a cry, spending untouched in my drawers, jerking at the ropes. Beside me, Watson groaned deeply and clutched at my shoulder. I had damn well earned that tenner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [nsfw demonstration video](http://amaisatya.tumblr.com/post/30946883116/tuosday-cum-with-no-hands-holy-shit-thats)


	13. mutual masturbation (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mutual masturbation for Jaradel_, plus angst!

I was nearly asleep when Holmes opened my bedroom door. The light from his candle stung my eyes, and he snuffed it when he saw me wince.

"What is it?" I asked in an unnecessary whisper. "Is it a client?"

"No," he said, coming close and setting the candle stub down on my bedside table.

There were not many other reasons Holmes came into my room in the middle of the night. I pushed back the quilt and offered him a hand. His fingers were chilly in mine, but his body was warm when he swung a leg over my hips and settled down on my upper thighs. Immediately I pushed his nightshirt up around his midsection, getting it peremptorily out of the way, and he did the same for me. I was ashamed at how eagerly my body reacted, but he was in the same semi-aroused state, and when we came together it was with a mutual sigh of relief. I reached up and curled my fingers around the back of his neck, and he bent his head.

Holmes's tongue in my mouth was accompanied by his hand around my prick, and he tugged and kissed me to full arousal. I reciprocated, though my palm was dry, but Holmes never seemed to want to wait for the addition of lubrication. I could have had anything to hand to ease the way, and yet I never insisted. It didn't matter: a few minutes of deliberate, familiar manipulation, and we were both slick and straining.

I tasted his desperation in the press of his lips, felt his hunger in the grip of his fingers. All day we circled one another: teasing, taunting, admiring, flirting. Not until the cover of darkness hid our sin did we allow ourselves to collide. My whole being cried out for him, and was only soothed in these strange, furtive, less-than-tender moments.

Holmes's climax was silent, heralded only by the stiffening of his spine and followed solely by the hiss of breath through his teeth. His emission, hot upon my belly, triggered my own, and he frigged me roughly through it. We came to rest clinging to one another, our hands sticky with the evidence of the other's pleasure, our mouths still smeared together.

Wordlessly, Holmes released me and rose, his nightshirt falling into place, his face in shadow. He picked up the stub of the candle with his left hand, crossed the room on bare, silent feet, opened the door, and vanished down the stairs.

I replaced the blankets and turned on my side, my chest aching, my want doubled. I didn't like these trysts, but I didn't know what else to do.


	14. magnifying glass (BBC, Sherlock, John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> magnifying glass, for cloakstone69

"Sherlock, if you pull out your little magnifying lens while you're down there, I swear to god--"

John doesn't finish the threat, but Sherlock gets the point. He doesn't have the lens on him anyway; where would he keep it? He wouldn't trust the floppy pockets of his dressing gown with his nice lens. He pushes up on one elbow to glare up the length of John's body.

"John, I know you think my interest in this is clinical, but it is not a _mystery_ , what you're doing."

John grins, and he gives his cock a squeeze. His other hand slips into Sherlock's hair, twining Sherlock's curls around his clever fingers. Sherlock sinks down again, pillowing his head on John's thigh.

"Besides," Sherlock says, "the view is adequate."

Sighing deeply, John says, "It's a good thing I know what you mean when you say adequate."

Sherlock hums. He trails the backs of his knuckles up the inside of John's other thigh, brushing over fine, fair hair and pale skin. John flexes his thigh and buttock, spreading his legs a little, and murmurs something indistinct.

The smell of John's body here is thick and warm, and Sherlock breathes it in slowly, parsing the aromas. He can smell John's arousal mounting, the bittersalt of his pre-come as it leaks over his fingers, and the rising-bread scent of his skin trapped by the curls of his pubic hair. Sherlock closes his eyes to catalogue them better.

"I thought you wanted to watch," John mutters above him.

"Observation is much more than just watching," Sherlock says. He opens his eyes again to see John twisting his wrist on the next upstroke, the muscles in his abdomen tensing.

"Jesus, you're smelling me again aren't you?"

"Mm." Sherlock shifts so that he can press his nose to the crease of John's groin.

John grunts and increases his pace. Sherlock rolls back again and pushes John's opposite thigh wide. John's breathing is changing, deepening, and he is beginning to work his hips up to meet his fist. HIs bollocks are pulling up against the root of his cock, full and heavy. Sherlock watches them contract, becoming firm as John's body prepares to ejaculate.

His view is abruptly blocked when John changes his grip, tugging his balls away from his body to stay his impending orgasm and curving his other palm over the tip of his cock. John rubs in a circle, polishing the crown, and the tendons in his neck are standing out. His erection thickens, and John goes back to jerking it quickly, still rubbing the head. Sherlock can smell how close to orgasm he is.

Then John jerks his palm away and arches hard, groaning, holding himself firmly as he begins to spurt. He shoots once, twice, nice and hard, and then two more times with less force. He groans again, softer this time, and relaxes all over.

"Any closer and I'd have missed the show," Sherlock assures him, patting his thigh.


	15. Escott/Aggie (ACD, Holmes/Aggie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes had to get down to some serious manipulation.

There is something to be said for country girls. They are more adventurous than their city-dwelling counterparts, more innocent, and more opportunistic. They believe you when you say you’re thinking of settling down, as if you haven’t got someone waiting for your return. Someone who will express pleasure at the announcement of your engagement, but who will not be able to hide his consternation from you.

My Aggie— for she is mine, now, and I must do right by her as long as we are betrothed— has a good head on her shoulders, and what lovely shoulders they are. I have seen them bared but once, when the neck of her fetching frock slipped as she climbed over the wall at Appledore Towers. Her skin is smooth and pale, like fine porcelain, and the gentle touch of my lips raises gooseflesh all over. In the crook of her neck, she smells of jasmine soap and warm grass and the subtle sweet musk of womanhood. Her hair is copper silk between my fingers.

I have kissed her three times, though the third counted more like a dozen. The memory of that kiss now elevates my pulse, makes my mouth dry with wanting, tents my drawers. I snuck that kiss behind the public house two nights ago, and she pushed me bodily against the exterior wall. I hid my surprise well, taking hold of her soft waist, her ample hips. She pressed her bosom against my chest, and I found myself with her tongue in my mouth and her hands upon my backside.

"Oh, Escott," she murmured, startling me again into wariness, "you don't know how badly I've been hoping for this."

"Oh, darlin'," I replied, "I do know."

She laughed her high, trilling laugh, and kissed me again. "I can tell how badly _you've_ been hoping."

I was hard then, and I am hard now. The press of her hand was entirely unlike my own, and so unfamiliar in its daintiness that I almost stopped the business right there. I was used to rougher— though no less tender— handling, but I was playing a role and I was committed. I pushed into her grip, as I do into my own, and I nibbled my way down the tender, unblemished throat. Her moan of delight rings in my ears.

Beneath her skirts, she guided my hand to the slit in her drawers and to the slick heat of her sex. Two fingers slid deep while my thumb made her squirm, and she panted open-mouthed against my neck. Her breast was heavy in my hand, and her nipple round and taut beneath my tongue.

My climax shocks me, as it did then, and I hold my breath to keep from making any noise.

"Marry me, Aggie," I whispered, holding her close, my nose in her sweet-smelling hair.

I must never tell Watson all the details of my 'engagement.' He will be terribly jealous as it is.


	16. experience of women (ACD, Mary Morstan/Mrs Cecil Forrester)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS FIC SERIES NEEDS MORE WOMEN IN IT.

John is a dear, sweet, gallant man, but he knows very little about pleasuring women. Oh, certainly, he has _experience_ of women over three continents, but such a boast does not convey how many women on each, nor how satisfied they were with the result. He is tender, kind, and thoughtful, but his efforts are perfunctory at best, and he requires a very great deal of education.

The distinguished individual who educated me, Amelia Forrester nee Wheadon— now there was a woman who had spent her time in careful study. She knew just how to touch a girl, how to coax her legs apart and make her melt. The first time she kissed me, I thought I might cry for the pure, simple beauty of it. She spent ages touching my bare sides, caressing me until I begged her to go on, and then she spent even longer kissing my breasts and my belly as my arousal mounted higher and higher. When she finally touched her sweet tongue to my slick cunt, I was seized at once with a powerful paroxysm. She licked me as I shook and moaned, holding my knees apart, and when I was finally too sensitive to go on she lifted her head and winked at me.

"That, my darling girl, was a beautiful show."

"What—?" I gasped. "Do it again."

She laughed, pushing her dark hair out of her face, and lowered her mouth to my quim once more.

"That's your clitoris, dear one, and this is its only purpose that I've found," she told me afterwards, stroking my sweat-damp shoulders.

"You must let me do that to you," I said.

She taught me how, with gentle words and kind admonitions and her hands in my hair, and I remember the effervescent joy that filled me when I brought her to her own climax.

During the two years that Amelia and I were lovers, she taught me more about my own body than I suspected I was ever meant to know. She instructed me in how to bring myself pleasure, either by using my fingers or (her favorite method) by rhythmic contractions of my pelvic muscles, and she found all the secret places that made me shiver and grow wet.

We never let ourselves be seduced by imaginings of forever. She had a childhood friend to whom she was promised, and she married him a year before I met John Watson. When she had her son, she engaged me immediately as her governess, though I hadn't any proper qualifications. We fell into bed once more, ecstatic, and I knew that my love for her would never be lessened by distance or time lost between us.

Amelia met John and approved of him, though she wept when she did it. I held her and promised we would never be parted for long. He had Mr Holmes, after all.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to teach John some of the things she taught me.


	17. early morning (ACD, Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> early morning dreams et cetera

The dream consisted entirely of arousing situations and lascivious promises, glimpses of bare flesh and the teasing pressure of hands, and not a single moment of privacy. My companion and I were darting through ballrooms and sneaking around staircases, and not once could we find a quiet corner in which to make good on our intentions. I woke frustrated and hot all over, half-expecting to find Holmes standing at my bedside and witness to my early morning embarrassment.

He was not, thank God, and I rolled onto my back with a groan, trying to recapture the fading wisps of the dream. I couldn't picture my companion's face any more, but then I wondered if I'd been able to picture it in the first place. I remembered a tantalizing, familiar scent and a flushed throat, but the overall impression was gone.

I slipped a hand beneath my nightshirt and decided I wasn't going to need much to bring myself to completion. The dream had brought me so near already, it would only take a dozen strokes before I was spilling myself in my hand. I pushed the blankets back and began to frig myself roughly, squeezing my eyes shut. Just the _promise_ of climax edged me closer.

Mentally I rifled through my usual repository of erotic imagery in an attempt to find my mystery companion once more. I thought of long, elegant necks and strong, pale hands, and realized I was straying into dangerous territory. I had promised myself I would not give in to my obsession with my flatmate, and yet… here, alone in my bed, surely it was harmless.

Holmes would be downstairs right now, probably stretched out on the settee in defiance of breakfast. I thought about his tongue when he poked it out to guide his pipe between his lips, and how I wanted to be guided that way. I imagined his lean body bared for my eyes, considered the sliver of skin I sometimes caught sight of in the open V of his shirt.

My imaginings morphed to join my dream, and now it was Holmes and I who slipped away from a party to find a secret corner, and it was Holmes and I who clung to one another, fumbling with our clothes, my cockstand against his thigh and his erection in the groove of my hip. It was his mouth that I kissed, his backside I caressed, his orgasm I pursued. Then it was Holmes into whom I slid my prick, and Holmes who moaned and shook and begged me for more.

I reached my peak with a powerful jolt, startled by my own reaction, and stifled a noise that would have given me away to the whole household. I drew it out as long as I could, savoring the look on my imaginary Holmes's face as I spilled inside him.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting across the breakfast table from the real Sherlock Holmes, blushing furiously.


	18. unusual arrangement (ACD, ace!Holmes/allo!Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes loves Watson, any way you spin it. ([allosexual?](https://www.google.com/search?q=allosexual&oq=allosexual&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2157j0j7&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=91&ie=UTF-8))

Watson is by nature a sexual creature. He has a great appreciation for the beautiful women that float in and out of our sitting room door, and a less obvious but equally great one for the dashing men. He did not need to admit as much to me, for I saw it at once, and I believe the candidness between us is what makes our partnership particularly effective.

I, however, have never been burdened with the inconvenience of carnal feeling. It has allowed me to focus my energies on my work, which I value above nearly all else, and keeps my head clear for deductive reasoning. When I was younger, I suspected my attentions would never turn towards the fairer sex, and on the whole I was right; women have never tempted me. I never longed for a bedfellow, as the other boys did, and I never imagined I would marry.

But this lack of sexual attraction does not preclude romantic attachment, and it was not until I met John Watson that I distinguished the two. Suddenly I found myself blushing in his presence, wishing for his approval, wondering about his well-being. I wanted him to come to me for affection, and I wanted to be able to turn to him when I craved comfort. I wanted make him happy. Love, I told him, was outside my purview. Fortunately, he didn't entirely believe me.

For instance, I have found that I very much enjoy kissing and being kissed. Watson is the only person who is privy to this information, for it is he whom I choose to kiss. I could lie in his arms for hours, plying lips and tongue, making him shiver. He touches me carefully, his broad hands warm upon my back and arms, his fingers in my hair. He never asks any more than what I offer, and never complains about our unspoken boundaries; his regard for me is evident in his caresses and in his restraint.

Inevitably in these embraces he becomes aroused, for my boy is hot-blooded and I don't begrudge him for it. At first he was embarrassed, apologetic, and removed himself from my bed to take care of matters. Soon, though, I found myself resenting this separation, and one evening I asked him to stay.

"Holmes, are you certain?" He was hesitant, wary of offending me (me!).

"Don't question my judgment, my dear boy," I replied, tugging him back down to face me. I put my hand on his hip, suggestive, and said, "Please, I insist."

I held him and kissed him as he brought himself off, cataloguing every expression that crossed his face, every minute twitch of his body, reveling in the new data. I'd never seen him like that before, so unguarded, and now I felt I'd earned it.

We've found a balance, Watson and I, in the personal sphere as well as the professional. I wouldn't change it for the world.


	19. bathtub (ACD, Holmes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the bath

To the sensualist, a well-prepared bath is a treat for the gods. Sitting at ease in the compact copper tub, not quite reclining but not quite upright, with the water warm around one's body and the touch of fire-warmed air upon one's shoulders, cannot be substituted. A bath at home has an entirely different quality from the Turkish baths, where heads of steam cloud the air and the clean tile underfoot is slippery with condensation, and the conversation of men can be heard echoing softly off the alcoves and walls; here I am entirely alone, the only sound the soft splash of the water as I shift, while my towel warms on the radiator.

I do not wear cologne, as a rule, for I find the scent of it to be wholly overwhelming. I need my senses clear for my work. But Mrs Hudson stocks our little washroom with a lavender soap that soothes me. I lather it up and down my arms and across the back of my neck, and my nipples stand at attention in the air. I do not avoid them, instead rubbing each in turn with soapy fingers until they are tingling. I wash my underarms and my chest as arousal stirs in my gut.

Watson will not be home for hours. He will undoubtedly be sore, tired, and dusty, and would rejoice to find a hot bath waiting for him. But the water will have to be drawn afresh; this tub will have gone cold long since. No need to preserve the sanctity of the bath.

I move the soap from hand to hand as I work my way down my ribs and over my stomach, ignoring for now my stiffening prick. One at a time, I prop my heels on the edge of the tub and wash between my toes, the tops and soles of my feet, massaging the week's activity out of them. I skate the dwindling soap up my calves, behind my knees, and spend a few minutes washing my thighs, backside, and the crack of my arse.

I know better than to touch the soap to my most sensitive parts, so I discard the remaining flake and the fingers that slip once more between my legs are entirely clean. My entrance is tight, for I am tense all over with anticipation, but a single finger presses inside soon enough. I spread my knees as wide as they will go, trapped as I am by the walls of the tub, and work my finger back and forth in tiny little thrusts, no more than the flex of a single knuckle. By the time I touch my cock, I am aching, and I sigh aloud as I tip my head back against the rib of the tub. It won't take long, and the clean-up is so much simpler than usual.

Nothing can compare to a bath at home.


	20. Skype (BBC, Sherlock/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skype mutual wank session for Jaradel. Kind of D/s-y, who's surprised. No one?

Sherlock was actually wearing briefs, but since they were below the edge of the laptop, John couldn’t see them and could therefore entirely dismiss them from his consciousness. Instead, all he could see was the broad expanse of Sherlock’s chest, the folds of his belly that were only ever visible when he was seated and leaning forward, the shadow of his navel, and the tip of his chin.

“My eyes are up here,” Sherlock said, angling the screen up so that his face came into view. He was smiling.

“I’m just admiring the scenery,” John replied, shifting his own computer back. “I miss anything good today?”

Sherlock sighed. "No," he said. "When are you coming back?"

"Thursday," John said. "I've only been gone twenty hours, Sherlock."

"Boring," Sherlock said. "Can we masturbate together?"

John blinked, considered the walls of his hotel room, and said, "Sure, why not."

"Good, because although there is something arousing about the thought of you being desperate for me when you get back, I'd much prefer your stamina to be what it usually is when you fuck me into the mattress Thursday night."

John would never get used to the rush of arousal that overtook him when Sherlock laid their sex life out so plainly.

"Yeah, okay," he said, "lemme just--" and he pushed the laptop away to scramble out of his clothes. He heard Sherlock laughing as he crawled back into bed, cock swinging, to lean back against the pillows with the laptop between his heels.

"Have you been thinking about this long?" John asked.

"Just a few hours," Sherlock admitted. "Twenty, or so."

"Show me your crotch," John said. "No, just, leave them on. Ooh, you're already a bit hard, are you?"

"A bit," Sherlock said, adjusting himself through the briefs so that his prick pointed upwards towards his waistband. His face had disappeared again. John could almost feel those big hands on his skin, and he gave himself a little squeeze.

"I want to see you straining those buttons," he said.

Sherlock made a little noise, almost inaudible through the microphone and the lousy laptop speakers. His hand closed around his cock through the fabric, massaging gently until he swelled and thickened and tented his briefs. The soft cotton was stretched tight over the ridge of his erection, and John could see the swell of his cock head, the damp spot he was forming, the bulk of his balls between his thighs.

"God, that's nice," John murmured. "Put your hand inside and just-- hold it. Tell me how it feels."

Sherlock obeyed, slipping his hand under his waistband and covering his prick with his fingers. John watched him make a fist. "Hot," Sherlock said. "My skin is so hot." His hips lifted. "And so sensitive."

"We fucked yesterday," John teased. "How can you be so desperate already?"

"I don't know," Sherlock breathed. "This is your fault."

"I'm not even there," John said. "I think this one's on you."

"What next, John?"


	21. being observed (skype ii) (BBC, Sherlock/John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> skype side two

"Slow," John says, and even over the internet his voice has the same rough, demanding quality that made Sherlock's heart pound and his mouth dry. He slows down, though it pains him, to an almost glacial pace. His cock is ruddy, dripping, and the shivers of his threatening orgasm are torture. His balls ache; they're so heavy, so fucking full, and his last orgasm was _in John's presence_ less than a day ago. _Jesus._

Fortunately, John is looking pretty desperate himself. He's not touching his dick at the moment, his hands splayed instead on his upper thighs. His knuckles are white with the effort. 

"Can you get another finger in there?" John asks, which is a ridiculous question because Sherlock only has two fingers in now. He scoots his heel a little farther along the table edge, his briefs dangling off his ankle, and pulls his fingers out to lube up again. When they go back in, three this time, the squelching noise makes Sherlock shudder.

"John," he says, like that will help.

"I wish I could keep you all stretched out for me," John says, taking hold of his prick again and giving it a slow stroke from root to tip and back again. "When I get home, I could just slide right in."

"I've got—" Sherlock offers, and bites his tongue.

"What?" John demands. "You've got what?"

"I've got a plug, I could—"

"Yes, get it," John says. "Go get it right now. I'll wait. Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulls his fingers out again and stands on shaky legs. Three steps to the bedroom, then under the bed, and he closes his fingers around the silicone plug. Then he's back in front of the computer. The seat beneath him is sticky with lube. He shows John the plug.

John groans. "Fuck. Lemme watch you put it in."

Sherlock bends his knees, positioning the plug against his already-loosened hole. It goes in easily at first, then the stretch of the bulb makes him wince, then his body gets ahold of it and sucks it right inside, nestling it against his prostate, closing around the neck. The base of it fits between his cheeks. When he sits, the plug shifts and he freezes, throat caught on a startled little noise.

John's jerking himself quickly now, his fist a blur on his cock. "I know you can't really leave that in for three days," he gasps, "but Jesus, the idea of you all wet and open for me, sitting on that thing all day, fucking yourself on it at night— ah, ah!" He comes with a full-body spasm, spurting up his belly. Sherlock grips himself tightly, pulling down on his prick, rubbing his fingers across the head, rocking on the plug. It massages his insides, and he can't help the whimper that escapes him.

"Come on," John pants, "get yourself there and imagine it's my fingers."

It feels nothing like fingers, but it doesn't stop Sherlock.


	22. pornography (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> looking at/watching pornography

"I see you've found my stash of pictures," Holmes said behind me.

I jumped in surprise and just barely avoided dropping the stash all over the floor. Scarlet with embarrassment, I turned to face him. "I was looking for your notes on the Clerkenwell case," said I.

"I'm sure you were," he replied, smirking and shaking his head. "And yet, you've come across those instead."

 _Those_ were a folder full of erotic drawings, which had been tucked between a file marked "soil samples Jan 1883" and a glass jar that contained a preserved mouse skeleton. I supposed it was a very good hiding place for such a thing.

"The Clerkenwell papers are in my desk," Holmes went on, crossing the room to rifle through the desk in question, coming up with a sheaf of papers that looked much more familiar, "but since you've got those out, I don't suppose you found anything you particularly liked?"

I cleared my throat, smoothed my moustache, and went to join him at the desk, folder in hand. I let it fall open, and he sidled around behind me to wind his arms around my waist and prop his chin upon my shoulder. I had, in fact, been captivated by a few images, and I thumbed through the jumble until I came to one.

"Oh, yes," Holmes said in my ear, giving my midsection a squeeze. "The expression on the face of the chap on the right is what strikes me."

"I was more enamored of their position," I admitted.

"It certainly is inventive."

"I'm not sure you and I could manage it, not with my shoulder."

I felt Holmes chuckle as much as I heard it, and he kissed the corner of my jaw. "Fantasy does not always stand up to the test of reality, I'm afraid."

"This one, as well," I said, bolder now, turning the pages.

"An excellent choice," Holmes murmured. "I think the angle of penetration there is particularly stimulating. And, look at the way the hand is clenched in the suggestion of the bedclothes."

"Such detail," I agreed.

"This one is my favorite," Holmes said, reaching up to turn over a few more leaves. "It appears somewhat rough, but look at the affection with which he holds his lover's chin."

I swallowed hard. "Holmes, his hands are bound."

"Yes, I noticed that," Holmes agreed, kissing me again.

"Where did you get these?" I asked.

Holmes laughed. "They aren't hard to come by," he said. "The right back shelves of the right bookshops."

"But this one's an original." I pulled it out. "The charcoal has smudged, there, and— actually, wait a moment. That freckle right there, that's damned familiar."

Holmes's silence was deafening.

"This is you, isn't it," I said.

"Yes, Victor drew it," he said very quickly, starting to let me go.

I grabbed his arm before he could escape entirely. "I'd like to compare the drawing to the subject, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."


	23. surveillance (Elementary, Jamie Moriarty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie Moriarty looks at surveillance photos of Joan and Sherlock.

The pictures of the two of them together, outside the brownstone, make Jamie pause. She picks up the nearest one, sliding away the close-ups of Sherlock’s agonized, puppy-dog expression, and sits back to contemplate it. Joan is looking away down the street, her face hidden by the waterfall of her dark hair, her long, lean body stretched elegantly from the heels of her boots to the collar of her coat. Sherlock’s attention is fixed upon her, his usual moue of discontent softened by-- could it be?-- affection. Jamie hasn’t seen that look on him in a long time.

Another photograph shows Joan looking towards Sherlock now, a smile upon her angular face. It’s fond, a little exasperated, and entirely new to Jamie. She knows all about Joan Watson on paper, but she has so much to learn about this person who has captured Sherlock’s attention.

Joan, Jamie decides, looking at a close-up of her getting into the taxi, would look amazing with her face between Jamie’s thighs. Joan’s sable hair would tease at Jamie’s belly and would slide like silk through Jamie’s fingers. Joan’s freckles, just visible on her pale skin at this distance, would show so much better over a hot blush of arousal. Jamie wonders if Joan has ever tasted pussy before, and whether she’d be any good.

Or whether she’d be dreadful, hesitant, sloppy, shy; what she’d do if Jamie pushed her down on the bed and knelt over her; how long it would take her to stick out her sharp little tongue and lick Jamie’s cunt.

Jamie pushes the elastic of her pants aside and slips her fingers between her swollen lips. She's wet, no surprise there, and her fingertips slide easily down and up again to circle around her clit.

Letting out a breath, Jamie reaches for another photograph. This one shows Joan and Sherlock coming down the stairs from the brownstone together, Joan half a step behind. What captures Jamie's attention is the flex of Joan's left calf in her stockings. Joan imagines those calves wrapped around her back as Joan writhes on Jamie's favorite cock, the leather of the harness biting into her flawless skin.

The princess coat Joan wears conceals the rest of her figure, but Jamie pinches her own nipple through her tank and makes do. She rubs harder at her clit and grips her breast hard, imagining riding Joan's face, rubbing herself off on Joan's pink lips until Joan's chin and nose and cheeks are wet with her come. She can almost hear Joan's gasp of indignation.

The orgasm snaps up Jamie's spine and she spreads her legs and shakes, moaning aloud. The sharp smell of her cunt makes Jamie think of a night spent licking a lover out, her jaw and tongue tired from the work, and she comes again.

Eventually, wrist aching from the angle, Jamie subsides and slips her hand out with a sigh. She picks up the surveillance photos again. Back to work.


	24. in public/outside the home (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not quite in the privacy of one's own home

The door behind Lestrade closed, and Holmes said, "All right, let's get it over with."

"I beg your pardon?"

He stepped close to me, over the smashed remains of the jewelry box, and boldly—dangerously—put his hand over the half-hard bulge in my trousers. "You're aroused, Doctor," he said, gripping me firmly. "You usually are at the end of a case. It has to do with my dramatic flair for revealing the solution, if I'm not mistaken, which is, I admit, part of why I do it that way."

"Jesus Christ, Holmes," I said, regaining my senses and pushing him away. "It's not— if it were— it's not something that needs dealt with right now."

Holmes smiled at me, a predatory smile, and backed me up against the desk. "You heard me ask Lestrade for ten more minutes," he said.

"To clear up some final questions you had," I protested, nonetheless finding myself hardening further at his obvious determination.

"Questions which I have nearly answered," he said, pinning me with his thigh and his hands on either side of my hips. "Questions about your reaction, and how far you'll let me go."

The indignant breath I had taken hissed out of me, and I spread my legs to accommodate him. His smile widened. "How far are do you _intend_ to go?"

"I want to fellate you."

" _No_ , Holmes. Not here."

"Very well, I want to bring you off into my handkerchief, and then feel it in my pocket all the way home."

"That's disgusting."

"You didn't say no that time."

I stared at him, blushing, shamefully excited. Everything he'd said was true: his brilliance aroused me, and I thought I'd hidden it so well when we were in public. Well, to the world's most observant man, nothing—especially the reactions of a lover—was well hidden.

"Fine," I said.

Holmes took a step back, grabbed my hips, and spun me around. I planted both hands on the desk while he opened my trousers, and dropped my head with a groan when he pulled my cock out of my drawers. I was twitching with eagerness, and a few strokes from Holmes's strong hand had me leaking over his fingers. Holmes's hips against my backside were suggestive torture, the bulk of his groin nestled against the seam of my trousers. I pushed back and he thrust forwards, acknowledging, shoving my prick through the circle of his hand. He made me fuck his grip like that, his other arm wrapped around my ribs, his breathing hot upon the back of my neck.

"If I had my way, I'd take you right here on this desk," he said, his voice low and rough.

I came with a bitten-off cry, remembering our situation, and he caught my emission neatly in his pocket handkerchief.

"You weren't even hard," I said later, in the cab home.

He smirked at me. "Some of us have a little self control, Watson."


	25. facials (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson misses the mark, only a little bit on purpose. (follows [this little number](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1553825/chapters/3418154))

I hardly let Holmes finish before I sprang from his side and opened my trousers. With him already bound fast, it was simplicity itself to swing a leg over his torso and present myself to him, my eager cock against his parted lips. He opened his eyes, still shuddering, and his smile only lasted a moment before I pushed inside.

God, his mouth was heavenly, and his groan of indignation only made it sweeter. He sucked hard and coughed, the angle all wrong for this kind of thing. I tucked my hand underneath his head and lifted, bending his neck, and he opened his mouth again for me. His hands were clenched around the ropes that held him.

I held his gaze as I slowly fucked his mouth, watching the fluttering eyelashes, the dark pupils that swallowed up his silver irises, the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes. He was looking rather smug, convinced he'd earned the tenner we'd bet on the matter. Coming without his hands, what a lark. I wondered if I could do that to him: bring him off without touching his cock. I wondered if he could climax from stimulation to his nipples alone. He was a terribly sensitive man. It didn't seem out of the realm of possibility.

I pulled back to let him breathe, lowered his head to the pillows again and stroked myself instead, the head of my prick just touching his lips. He licked them, panting, and his tongue brushed deliberately against my skin. I paused in my self-abuse to smear my prick against his mouth, painting his bitten-red lips with viscious fluid, and he moaned deeply.

"Watson—"

"Hush," I said, filling his mouth once more. I bumped against his soft palate and he struggled to accommodate me. I lifted his head again, my hand in his hair, cradling his skull, and began to rock my hips, rutting shallowly in and out. His lips gleamed with spit and pre-ejaculate, and his face was flushed with the effort. He'd already expended so much to impress me.

I aimed for his mouth, ostensibly, but when the orgasm gripped me by my spine and twisted, some of that control wavered. I peaked with a stifled shout, spurting wetly across his lips and cheek. He caught the next shot on his tongue, and then I felt his hand on mine, freed from its rope, guiding my cock into his mouth in order to swallow the rest of it down. He held me as I shuddered and pulsed, and licked his lips when I sat back, exhausted.

The smear of semen on his cheek made my galloping heart clench, and I bent to lick it away. He laughed and squirmed, freeing his other hand to cradle my face and kiss me.

"You're disgusting," he told me fondly, his voice hoarse.

I rubbed my nose against his. "And you're a bloody show-off," I replied.


	26. spanking (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> um, because apparently this series didn't have any spanking in it yet? HUGE OVERSIGHT.

"You were insufferably rude," I said, laying my hand across Sherlock Holmes's backside with a _crack_. Holmes jerked on my lap, his face hidden in his arms, his sob muffled by the settee cushions. "What was that?"

He picked up his head. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "Watson, please!"

"Don't try to get out of this," I said calmly, giving him another smack.

"I'm not," he said, squirming uselessly, his knees sliding on the settee's satiny fabric, "I'm not."

I spanked him again, hard, on the left cheek. "Stop wriggling."

He yelped and tensed all over, trying to be still, obedient to the last. I carded my other hand through his hair fondly.

"That's it," I murmured, and slapped him again. "Now, up, dear boy, and take your trousers down."

"Oh, God," he said, but he pushed himself up and shoved a hand between our bodies. His cock was like an iron rod against my thigh, and it sprang out, hot and eager, when I helped him pull his trousers and drawers down to his knees. He would leave a wet spot on my nice linen trousers if he wasn't careful. I told him this.

"I'm sorry," he said again, breathless, "I'll try to be good."

"You are good," I said, kissing his ear. "But I don't want any messes."

Holmes shook his head hard and lowered himself carefully across my lap again. His arse was already pink from taking half his punishment through two layers of clothing, but I knew there were brighter colors I could achieve with a little effort. I caressed each cheek, gripping it roughly to hear him whimper and then soothing the ache with a gentler rub. I pulled his left knee towards me, wedging it between the settee seat cushion and that of the back, and he held his position beautifully. This exposed his bollocks, which were already loose and heavy.

I felt Holmes begin to squirm again in anticipation, so I gave him what he was waiting for: I spanked him good and sharp across both cheeks. He twitched away from the blow on instinct, which rubbed his bare prick along my thigh. Each successive blow across his gorgeous reddening backside did the same, until he was rocking against me, moaning shamelessly, utterly deaf to my orders that he cease that nonsense at once.

"Watson," he gasped, "Watson, oh, God, Watson!"

He was done for; I could see it. He was going to come whether I wanted it or not, so he might as well really enjoy himself. I tensed my thigh and laid upon him a flurry of blows that had him sobbing and jerking, head down to hide his scarlet, sweat-damp face, arse up to meet my stinging hand. I felt him go rigid, trembling, and then the hot pulse of his seed was soaking through my trousers.

I would have to hand-wash them later. Our landlady was only _so_ long-suffering.


	27. hiatus (ACD, Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> six weeks into the hiatus

Under cover of darkness, with my wife asleep beside me, I finally allowed the facade to crack. I turned my face into the pillows and huddled beneath the quilts, trying to remember how to breathe. When I returned from Afghanistan, England was full of unfamiliar faces and forgotten smells and the bright rush of humanity. Now, six weeks after I had stepped off a train from Switzerland, my home never felt so desolate. The heart in my chest had been crushed so thoroughly, I wondered that it could still pump the blood that kept me alive. The heart on my sleeve had never been so visible.

I could still feel his hand upon my arm, the last contact we had before I left him behind. His grip was firm, his promises to wait for me assured and confident. He never suspected. Or perhaps he knew. In fact, I am certain that he knew.

And he let me go anyway.

Perhaps that was why he clung to me so fiercely the night before, his legs locked around my hips and his arms around my shoulders, his face hidden in the crook of my neck. He whispered endearments, his fondness for me I rarely heard aloud, his fingers digging into my shoulder blades. At the end, when I sat back on my heels to hold his hips and fuck him hard and fast, he could barely keep quiet. He covered his mouth to stifle his shouts, and I preened to make him feel so strongly.

My body betrayed me now, indifferent to my anguish. My prick was hard again at the memory of his body hot around me, his cock standing up between us, his hands on my ribs. He was physically powerful in ways my wife was not, firm where she was soft, rough where she was smooth. But he was tender, and gentle, and he kissed me on the cheek when he thought I wasn't expecting it, and he tucked his fingers in my waistcoat pockets when he spoke to me. I curved away from Mary, hiding my self-abuse in the hollow of my hips.

I couldn't identify the last time he'd fucked me. He'd preferred it the other way round, but once in a while he indulged my desires to be penetrated. I remembered he'd been cautious, as if he could hurt me, as if I hadn't begged him with three of his fingers inside me to bloody well get on with it.

But I couldn't remember if that had been before my marriage or after it. Matrimony had not stayed our affair even for a moment, but it had been three years since we'd been free together in our rooms at Baker Street.

I was choking, drowning, and coming, my body and my brain at odds and overwhelmed. My next breath was a sob, too loud, and then I couldn't stop. I pressed the pillow to my face and struggled not to wake my wife.


	28. in a cab (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in a cab, for jaradel.

Watson pulled the blanket over both our laps and tucked it in around my hip, shielding my lower half from the frigid December air. The streets were busy with people doing their last minute Christmas shopping, and I couldn't help but take in details of their lives as we rattled past. Beside me, Watson was a warm, silent presence, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts.

Or, so I imagined, until his hand creeping into my lap proved me wrong.

I looked sharply at him, but his expression was impassive innocence. He was watching the pedestrians with vague disinterest. His fingers tapped a greeting upon my inner thigh. I slouched in my seat, spreading my legs, and gazed dispassionately out the window.

Watson squeezed my leg in appreciation and slid his palm up to cover the soft bulge of my groin. I propped my elbow up on the window ledge and bit down on the leather forefinger of my glove. Under the gentle, coaxing pressure of Watson's fingers, my prick began to swell and harden, until he could no longer cover the whole length of it with his palm, and resorted to rubbing his thumb across the head while his littlest finger rested against the seam of my trousers.

I risked another glance in his direction, pushing my hips up against his hand at the same time in encouragement. He cleared his throat softly and licked his lips, intently watching the road ahead of us. The black apron of the cab hid his wicked intentions entirely from the world, and I schooled my face again and closed my eyes, as if dozing to pass the time.

Watson began to massage me through my trousers, squeezing rhythmically, moving with the slow, unconscious rock of my hips. I stifled a sigh and eased my thighs further apart, and he pulled away for a moment. Then his hand was back, ungloved, and he worked open the buttons on my trousers.

My cock jumped at the bare contact, and I had to wriggle in my seat to let him pull me free from my drawers. The wool blanket across my lap tickled the head of my prick, and I couldn't keep in a noise of surprise. Watson offered me his handkerchief without looking. I took it.

He began to stroke me under the blanket with short, rapid motions designed to bring me to my peak as quickly as possible. It was rough and raw and I covered my mouth with my hand to keep silent. The sounds of the city were all around us, and the rattling of the cab beneath us contributed to our rhythm and to our risk. I found myself tensing already. I tipped my head back against the seat and let it come.

The handkerchief caught most of my emission, though my hand shook. Watson held me for a moment as I recovered, and then he carefully tucked me away. When I opened my eyes again, he was smiling.

"We're here."


	29. dirty talk (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> watson has a robust imagination.

"I've been thinking about fucking you all day," I said, when dinner had been cleared away and Holmes and I were left to our own devices. Holmes froze, his glass of brandy halfway to his lips, and I smiled smugly at him from my supine position on the settee.

"Have you indeed?" he asked, recovering himself and taking a sip.

"Mm," I said, reaching out for him with the arm that wasn't strapped securely to my chest. "It's been ages."

"It's been a week," Holmes reminded me, coming over and taking my hand.

"Feels like ages."

"The morphine is making you talk like that," he said.

I shook my head. "No. Well, yes, a bit, but I really have been thinking about it. Bending you over your desk and having you right there; yanking your trousers down just enough and shoving in."

Holmes's face flushed visibly, and he cleared his throat. Then he sank down to sit on the floor beside the settee, his head at the level of my ribs, so that I could wrap my arm around his shoulders. He tipped his head back against my side. "That's very vulgar," he said, glancing coyly up at me. "Do go on."

Grinning, I rubbed my hand down the middle of his chest. "It's been torture sleeping without you," I said. "I don't get to feel your lovely little arse pressing against me, teasing my prick when I wake up in the morning."

"You don't mind if I," Holmes said, gesturing down at his lap. 

"Allow me, please," I replied, unfastening his flies. Holmes sighed when I pulled him out, and his hand joined mine on the stiff column of his cock. I let go, not trusting my coordination, and returned my fingers to the peak of his nipple through his shirt.

"I miss you, too," he admitted. "But your arm--"

"Hush," I said, "I was describing the way I'd like to fuck you in the sitting room."

"Right, yes, my apologies."

"Maybe I'd fuck your mouth first, get you on your knees and shut you up."

"Ah," Holmes said, frigging himself quickly for a few seconds and then slowly for a pass or two. "Was I being saucy?"

"And rude," I said, unbuttoning his shirt to slip my hand inside. "You've incensed me and I want my comeuppance. I want you clutching my thighs while you suck on my cock, gagging for more."

Holmes's breathing was erratic. I licked my thumb and touched it to his exposed slit, and he shuddered hard. "What else?" he gasped.

"When I felt I'd made my point," I went on, "I'd want you arse-up on the rug there so that I could finger you until you were begging me to let you come, then I'd put my cock in you and ride you until you couldn't help yourself anymore."

"Gyah," Holmes said, spurting over his fingers. I sighed happily and stroked my hand through his hair. A minute later, I was sound asleep.


	30. turkish baths (ACD, Holmes/Watson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interlude at the turkish bath

The warm, dry sat heavy upon our skin, blurring our vision and clouding our senses. Sweat ran down my temples and my spine, and you were flushed pink all the way to your navel. You relaxed in the bathing chair beside me, your eyes closed, your long fingers waving delicately to a symphony only you could hear. The towel barely covered your groin, and I diverted my eyes from the muscular cut of your abdomen and hips. It was an eternal torture to lie beside you in the public bath, both of us nearly naked, and know what you looked like in the throes of passion. I could picture you moments from your climax, your face and body heated as they are now, your gorgeous fingers wrapped around your prick, your back arching as you strained towards orgasm.

I thought I managed to cover the clearing of my throat, but you cracked an eye open at me and smirked.

"Watson," you said, "I don't suppose you're ready for the hot room."

I had to bend my knee to hide the sizable bulge under my own towel, which made you grin outright.

"Really, old boy," you admonished in an undertone.

"If you go on without me, I'll just be a minute."

"Hm," you said, and looked around the room. It was almost completely empty, our only bathing companions a group of older men on the other side of the room who were sweating profusely and looked as though they shouldn't risk the hot room at all. Nevertheless, as we watched, they rose one-by-one and departed. You turned to me, dangerously smug.

"Well," you said, "make yourself decent, Watson, won't you?"

"You're not serious."

"Entirely," you said, reaching out to tug at the corner of my towel. The knot came undone, and my obvious erection was bared to the hot air. "I'll hear if anyone approaches."

God, I was tempted. "No, just—"

Your fingertip on the head of my cock made me jump, and you wet your lips as you met my eyes. "Please?"

I took hold of myself tentatively, sighing at the contact. My hand was slippery already, and it only took a few slow strokes before I was leaking freely and the glide was even smoother. You couldn't decide whether you wanted to watch my face or my hand, and I tried to make it as difficult as possible. I worked myself slowly and then faster, changing my rhythm, rubbing the base of my thumb across my glistening head, jerking only the tip and then stroking from root to crown; at the same time, I let the pleasure show upon my face, biting my lip, creasing my brow, stifling my moans behind my teeth. I heard you curse under your breath, and then you were pushing away my hand and replacing it with yours. At the same time, you introduced my other hand to the cockstand beneath your towel.

As you've said, Holmes: we both go down together.


	31. waiting (ACD, Holmes/Watson/Mary)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson waits his turn.

Before I met Miss Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes had not known the touch of a woman. It was not that I set out to convert him, for I believed then that he truly was incapable of the softer emotions, but Mary had other ideas. She saw the love I held for him was as strong as the love I held for her, and she proposed a solution I had never imagined.

Now, as I lie beside them in our bed, with one hand on Holmes's dark head as he applies his clever tongue between Mary's thighs, I am ashamed I doubted her even for a moment. My other hand rests on my wife's shoulder, her head cradled in the crook of my arm, her gasps of pleasure muffled against my chest. Her fingers twine with mine in Holmes's hair, and he moans his approval as we guide him together to Mary's most sensitive places.

She orgasms with a soft cry and an arching of her back that pushes her breasts up, perfect for appreciative fondling. I let go of Holmes's hair to do just that. Holmes licks Mary until she is shivering and panting, and then he crawls up her body to kiss her mouth now, his chin smeared with her juices. His cock is rigid between his thighs, ruddy and gleaming with desire, and Mary tugs him toward her by the hips. When he sinks inside her, she echoes his groan of appreciation.

I kiss him as he makes love to her, slowly, dipping my tongue into his mouth to taste my wife and to set his rhythm. He is already shaking with arousal, but his self-control is impeccable. No matter how hard or fast he wants to rut, he defers to Mary and me. Mary can take a little rough treatment, even enjoys it in the right circumstances, but she prefers it slowly, gently, leisurely.

I break the kiss to let him breathe, and take myself in hand. Mary will be ready to come again in a few minutes, but Holmes's control will not last that long. When Holmes spills himself, I must be ready to take his place.

Mary reaches up to pinch at Holmes's nipples, and he grins breathlessly at her and pushes in hard to grind his hips against her pelvis. When they kiss, it is affectionate and entirely without finesse. He is close; I can see it in the clench of his fingers in the bedclothes and the furrow of his brow. His speed increases, and then his breath catches and his hips stutter, and Mary moans deeply as he comes inside her. She gives him a moment to ride it out, still kissing him, and then he rolls aside with a sigh and I rise up to kneel between her thighs. She is wet with Holmes's seed and clenches hungrily around my cock.

Holmes made my life after Afghanistan bearable. Mary made it sweet. Together, they make it complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! What a ride. Thanks for playing along with me. It's been a pleasure. No, there will not be another month of this nonsense, because although writing every day is good for me, I have some larger projects that need some attention! So there's that. But if you want to stay up to date on those, sometimes I manage to post a Sunday Six on [Tumblr](http://mistyzeo.tumblr.com/tagged/sunday+six), or you can find me griping [on the twitter.](http://twitter.com/mistyzeo)
> 
> Hooray masturbation!


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